Two Paths Crossing
by Tramontana
Summary: An imagined rendition of how Face met Hannibal during an early deployment to Iraq.  Probably a bit AU, but please read and enjoy! T for language.


"Guys, what is this, like the third night in a row? Seriously, I get it. I'm new. I'm young. I'm lowest on the totem pole, the bottom rung of the ladder…"

Templeton Peck could talk himself out of nearly anything. It was a talent he'd discovered in himself from a very early age, and it was a formidable weapon, especially when combined with a pair of big blue eyes and a prize winning you-must-love-me smile. As the years carried him closer to adulthood, he'd learned how to hone that lethal combination into a wide range of variations that served a wider range of purposes. It was a skill that had taken him to whole new heights.

It was also utterly failing him at the moment.

His very first mission in Iraq had deposited him amongst a collection of guys who could practically be called a "posse;" they took nobody's bullshit and dealt out plenty of their own. They also seemed to think that the best way to get the new guy acclimated to their unit was to literally drag him out of his bunk, blindfold him, and stand him up in the sand at some currently-unknown location. They'd even courteously decided to secure his wrists behind his back. In the jeep ride to Whereverland, they'd insisted that he "drink a little courage." Oddly enough, courage tasted a lot like the bottom of a cheap tequila bottle.

That particular thought coupled with the sound of a gun being primed abruptly made his stomach roll. "Um, guys," he tried to gauge where to aim his voice, taking a few unsteady steps in what he thought was the right direction... "I think there might be more conducive ways to-" he stopped short when a single gunshot crackled through the air, the sound passing close enough to make him freeze where he stood. The men burst into raucous laughter as his strained exclamation of "Jesus Christ!" rang out into the night.

Heart pounding in his chest, he spoke in what he hoped was an assuaging tone. "Look, gentlemen, can we just talk about this like civilized human beings? There is really no need for-" _**BANG!**_He startled violently as another bullet hit the sand, on his left instead of his right this time. He desperately wanted to pull off the blindfold. Before he could collect his wits again, a third shot was fired—it sounded like it was aimed above him this time. Half a moment later he shook his head wildly as fibrous debris rained down on him. Backing up in the process, he found himself colliding with what felt like the trunk of a palm tree. Afraid to deviate in either direction, he stood there, almost glad to have something solid to lean on.

"Tell you what, FNG." The man's voice was drawing nearer as he spoke. He thought the guy's name was Troyer, maybe? "We're gonna give _you_ a gun. Then," the man paused, startling him by seizing him by the arm, "we're gonna point you at this tree and let you take a shot at it." Troyer hauled him away from the tree, making him stumble as he tried to keep up. "If you hit it, party's over, and we all head back to the barn. If you miss…" Troyer whirled him around to face the direction they'd come from. "…Well, if you miss, you might just have to spend the night out here in the desert and ponder your place in the grand scheme of things."

He felt his hands being untied and tensed, instinct telling him to take the opportunity to break free, but where would he go? Blindfolded, he had no idea where he was, no sense of which route they'd taken. Not to mention there was only one of him and four of them. The point became moot as Troyer re-bound his wrists in front of him and put a pistol in his hands.

"Wait, wait," one of the other men-Landon, maybe-spoke up. "It hasn't been long enough just yet, give him a few spins or something."

"Good call."

_What?_

Troyer took the gun back for a moment, spun him around several times, and shoved the gun back into his hands. The tequila wanted to burn its way back up his esophagus at this point, but worse than that was a sense of tilty dizziness that nearly made him fall over. Their laughter grated on him again as Troyer kept him on his feet through the worst of it.

"Now we're in business," Landon cackled.

"Take your aim, FNG," Troyer instructed.

"I think I'm gonna hurl," he heard himself protest.

"Aim your fucking weapon and fire, Peck! And you better hit that goddamn tree or you're gonna be sleeping with the scorpions!"

"Faced raised the gun with wavering arms. _I'm never drinking tequila again…_His hands shook and his ears had started ringing. He felt absolutely terrible and halfway removed from reality.

"_Fire_ your _weapon,_ Peck!" Troyer's voice made him ill, and the group's continued laughter was incessant.

_**BANG!**_

Templeton Peck squeezed the trigger, and the men's laughter abruptly desisted as the bullet struck the tree trunk and ricocheted harmlessly into the ground.

He laughed a little deliriously at his success and was completely unprepared for the foot Troyer planted in his back, sending him sprawling face first in the sand. He had either the foresight or reflex to not land on the gun on the way down, which was fairly remarkable considering how much his head was spinning at this point.

"Think you're a smart guy, huh, Peck?" Troyer snapped.

He groaned an unintelligible reply into the sand.

"I think maybe we'll leave you out here anyway. Seems like you might need an attitude adjustment." The pressure on his back increased as Troyer pressed his foot down harder. "Maybe we'll tie you to a tree so you can't run from the-"

"Shit! Troy-!" Landon squeaked.

Their words were interrupted by the sound of a fist hitting flesh, the dull thud of Troyer hitting the dirt, and a stern, lilting voice. "Maybe you gentlemen would like to be introduced to the stockade," the man spoke in a commanding tone. "You drag a fellow soldier off post in the middle of the night, get him wasted, play some potentially life-altering mind-games and practically land him on a bullet when he passes your little test?"

He could hear the sounds of men being handcuffed and struggled to hoist himself to his knees.

"Sir, we-" Troyer made a feeble and quickly silenced attempt.

"Do you honestly think nobody's ever pulled these kinds of stunts before? That you could seriously get away with it indefinitely? There's a line between hassling the new guy and putting a soldier's life in danger, and the four of you have crossed it." There was a brief pause. "Get them out of here."

Footsteps. He'd managed to get to his knees and was tugging the blind fold off as the imposing figure of Colonel Hannibal Smith came to stand at his side. He'd seen the man around and heard plenty of stories, not all of which he was convinced were true. Some of the ops this guy supposedly ran in the field sounded more like fairy tales than real life. Still, the man was something of a military legend.

"You all right, Private…?"

"Peck, sir. Um, sir, I want to thank you…for…" he took that illustrious moment to rehash his dinner and some really cheap tequila, narrowly missing the colonel's boots. He was fortunate enough not to land in it when he slumped to the sand again, and all became darkness.

It felt like he'd only had time enough to blink, but he suddenly found himself in a hospital cot with a saline drip and a headache the size of Alaska.

"What?" he heard himself say, and had the impression somebody had been talking to him.

"I said, welcome back, Private. You with me?" It was Colonel Smith.

"Yes, sir, I'm with you." he slurred. "That must have been some really bad liquor. I mean it definitely tasted bad, but it must have been really bad." _Wow, it'd be great if I could stop babbling inanely._ "Sir."

"They basically ruffied your tequila, Private, so I'd have to agree with your assessment." There was a mild level of good natured teasing in his voice when he continued. "It was indeed, 'really bad.'"

"They _what?_" Insult to injury. Apparently maximum humiliation wasn't achieved until somebody got drugged. "Sir, are you serious?"

"As a heart attack, Private. Great bunch of guys. I hope they enjoy being court marshaled."

He sighed wearily, wondering how much of the camp knew about this nonsense already. "How long have I been out, sir?"

"Just overnight. You should be on your feet again soon. And when you are, I have a proposition for you."

"Sir?"

"I've been through your records, Peck. I understand you're something of a sharpshooter."

"I'm…a decent shot, sir," he replied.

"Hm, little past decent, I'd say. You're an excellent marksman. I'd like to transfer you over to my unit."

He blinked, definitely not predicting this turn of events. "I, uh, wow. Yes? I'd be honored, sir."

"Good, because I've already set the paperwork in motion. I'll leave you to your rest then. You'll receive orders on when and where to report when you're up and about again." The colonel turned to go.

"Um, sir?" the hesitant summons turned his new CO back around. The colonel's eyebrows rose, waiting for him to continue. "I don't think I thanked you properly for helping me back there, so, uh, thanks."

"Not a problem Private. Recover your strength well; I'm going to have a lot of work lined up for you."

"Yes, sir," he said with a grin.

* * *

Many years later, after rolling down a hill in a stack of burning tires, colliding with a van, and yakking half his stomach into the Mexican desert, the now-Lieutenant Templeton "Faceman" Peck would receive a bemused look from a certain grey-haired colonel who was glad his boots came through the incident unscathed.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this, Lieutenant," Hannibal declared, helping Face wobble his way into the van.

"I really need to _not_ drink tequila," Face groaned as the door slid shut behind him.


End file.
